


Mistakes

by aoi588



Category: Rigel Black Series - murkybluematter
Genre: AU, Gen, Parseltongue, after the tournament, so much parseltongue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:34:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27442009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aoi588/pseuds/aoi588
Summary: Someone had once told Tom Riddle Jr. that everybody made mistakes.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle
Comments: 29
Kudos: 76
Collections: Rigel Black Exchange Round 2





	Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [graveExcitement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graveExcitement/gifts).



There was something decidedly off about Arcturus Black.

He did not want like most Slytherins. And if there was one thing Tom Riddle understood, it was _want_. He knew himself well enough to admit that he had hungered his whole life. He recognized ambition where he saw it and he saw it everywhere, no matter how sanctimonious the Gryffindor. His tournament winner should want what Tom could provide and yet —

“Is something wrong, Lord Riddle?” the wretch asked politely, eyes glittering with satisfaction. He sat at the large dining table with his head pillowed in his hand, eyes half-shut lazily. The image would undoubtedly be plastered all over Witch Weekly within the next day.

“No, just a minor inconvenience,” he said smoothly. “Apologies for my tardiness. Shall we dine?”

“ _Brat_ ,” he hissed under his breath. The boy merely blinked innocently at him.

He had called up every international connection he had to make this tour appealing. There were six Potions masters on the list, as well as an Alchemy master. One of the Potions Masters was part-veela. The knowledge and expertise was an academic’s dream, he had been _inclusive_ , and the travel accommodations were comfortable and grand without being ostentatious. He had even hired that oaf Hagrid to take care of the horses after Snape mentioned the two had a passing friendship, and yet he had woken up that morning with his hair a dulled purple. A purple that would not come off with _Finite_ , and eventually had to be concealed with a hasty charm. The boy was _juvenile_.

“Oh, don’t worry, Tom,” Fudge chortled, the imbecile. “We have plenty of time. Rigel, my dear boy, how do you feel? Nervous?”

“Surely,” Skeeter purred, quill poised.

Black looked humble. “I’m truly just grateful for the opportunity.”

Tom held back the urge to scoff. This was the boy who would have moved heaven and earth not to go on what was essentially a fully paid vacation.

He leaned back in his seat and let Skeeter’s syrupy tones fade into a dull buzz. What spell had the boy used? He knew Black wasn’t pleased to be going, but he hadn’t thought he would be bold enough to prank him. No matter. Fingers drumming on the table, he mused over what this could mean.

“Lord Riddle, this flying carriage is quite the sight,” Skeeter said, turning to him. “I’m impressed. Would you be willing to give us a more extensive tour of the interior after breakfast? For the sake of our readers.”

“Of course, Miss Skeeter,” he replied automatically, smiling. There was another possibility. Perhaps it was a sign the boy was growing more comfortable with him?

The next week thoroughly disabused him of this notion. The taps spewed jelly, the horses grew stubborner by the day, and the purple, while fading, clung stubbornly to the roots of his hair.

“ _I know it’ssss you_ ,” Tom said crossly, cornering his champion in one of the hallways. “ _I would advisssse you to quit this childish tantrum._ ”

“ _Are you going to call the tour off early?_ ”

“ _No._ ”

“ _Then let me have my fun, Riddle_.”

The boy should be taught a lesson. But would it be counterproductive? Like it or not, this tour was a way to establish trust between the two of them, despite how ill-advised Severus seemed to find it, and trust would be established if he had to spend the entire trip weathering the boy down.

Master Silvent spent two hours talking with the boy in rapid French about some new technique the Potter girl had drummed up.

“It’s revolutionary,” she said.

“Yes,” Black said, the curve of his lips suggesting some sort of private joke. “Harry’s quite talented.”

Tom was slowly readjusting his understanding of the boy. He liked Potions, but he also liked pranks. He had lost his mother. He had an uncle who was a werewolf and was engaged to a halfblood acquaintance he had been close to since childhood. Potions had been less effective than anticipated — if Severus was correct and the two would not be separated, perhaps all he needed to do was pull the girl in. There _had_ been an odd sort of rumor making its way through society circles.

“Would you like to visit Harriet?” he offered during the third week, taking care to use the girl’s first name.

“Why?” Black’s eyes narrowed.

“I gather you care for her very much.”

“And I gathered that wasn’t something you were altogether fond of,” Black said. “My lord.”

“I understand, after all.” Tom arranged his features carefully. The boy was sentimental. A more personal approach was in order. “I lost my mother too.”

Black seemed far less moved than Tom would have liked. “What does losing my mother have to do with seeing my cousin?”

Tom frowned gravely. “You may not have been aware, but the current word is that you mimic your cousin’s features out of an attachment to her maternal presence — ”

For the first time, Black looked utterly caught off guard. “Maternal presence — ”

He was laughing. Merlin, this brat was infuriating.

“Am I incorrect?” he said, taking care to keep himself looking sympathetic.

“Lord Riddle, with all possible respect,” Black said, regaining his composure. “You are changing tactics far too quickly for me to think you have even the barest inkling of sincerity. No, we do not need to go see my cousin. She’s away at the moment, actually.”

Tom filed the _away_ tidbit for further investigation. If the Potter angle wasn’t going to work, perhaps he should lean into the political one.

“We will be meeting briefly with a British vampire expert today, he’s quite well-informed on the intricacies of rare ingredients,” he informed the boy at breakfast. And hadn’t that been a pain to manage.

He expected the same mild disinterest Black had shown for much of their travels, potentially some mild surprise. What he wasn’t expecting for the boy to pale slightly, his fork dipping in surprise.

“A vampire expert?”

Was he afraid of vampires? That would be an interesting weakness. “Yes, he is affiliated with one of the covens in Britain, but did happen to be in Germany at the right time.”

The boy accepted the news calmly, but the unease he had seen there was curious. Tom resolved to tag along on their meeting. Usually only the photographer went, but there was no reason that Tom couldn’t visit on the pretext of checking in on his protege.

The room was dim, with the vampire standing at the forefront of it. His eyes were a hideously disturbing shade of yellow, and Tom could see the glint of his fangs in the lamplight.

“Greetings, Mr. Black.” Viscount Aurel said.

There was a split-second hesitation there that gave Tom pause. They had met before, he was sure of it now, but in what context? Had they been romantically involved? Were they enemies?

Unfortunately, the rest of their meeting provided no clues. The two were soon drawn into an intellectual, if perfunctory discussion on the extraction of neurotoxins. After the meeting, though, as Tom was just outside the room the two were in, he caught a snippet of the conversation Black and the viscount were having.

“Thank you so much, Kasten,” the boy was saying, voice heavy with relief.

“Do not worry about it. I gathered from the scent-blocker you had used that you hoped to prevent me from recognizing you.”

“I wasn’t sure if it would work. I’m sorry, I really can’t talk about it here.” He sounded apologetic. Tom could hear the sound of him gathering his things, and he hurried to join the photographer he had hired, mind whirring furiously. The infernal boy was keeping something from him.

“A Metamorphmagus?” Lirius Scamander said doubtfully. “He isn’t.”

Lirius was markedly different than he had been in their school days, but South America had not changed him so much that he would lie to Tom.

Tom stiffened. “How can you tell?” If he wasn’t a Metamorphmagus, why did he look so much like the Potter girl?

“I’ve heard it was some sort of… partial ability. One he can’t quite control.”

“No, there’s nothing like that. The boy I saw an hour ago had no morphing ability."

Why had he lied? The boy’s aversive behavior, his dislike of physical touch, the conversation he had had a week ago. He was not a Metamorph. Lirius was never wrong when it came to magical gifts.

Something was —

“I apologize sincerely, old friend, but there’s a matter I have to tend to,” Tom said, tone chilly.

Lirius paled. “It’s of no concern, my lord.”

He hurried back, stewing more and more by the moment. Who was he, if he was not Arcturus Black? He could be anyone. He could be an urchin picked up off the streets.

But he had spoken Parseltongue.

In a bolt of clarity, Tom recalled a recent gala. He had said something to the boy, but had received no acknowledgement — it was the Potter chit who turned her head — the Potter girl who had heard him.

She was fond of Potions. She and Black looked stunningly alike, and what was it Black — not Black — had requested when they took the Vow earlier that very year—that halfbloods and Muggleborns be permitted back into Hogwarts —

“ _You are not Arcturusss Black_ ,” he seethed, storming into the library where he knew the boy would be, his words near unintelligible in his outrage. He flicked his wand towards the doors and let them slam shut, flinging a wayward silence charm.

He — _she_ — looked startled, then panicked, before a facade of defensiveness slid over that wretched face.

“ _What isss thisss?_ ” he hissed. “ _Ssssome sssssort of joke? A prank? Did the real boy not want to go on thissss trip that badly?_ ”

Bone-deep he knew the truth: he had never been dealing with the real boy.

“ _Harriet Potter, you fucking missserable Mudblood_ **_bastard_ **—”

“ _Watch your mouth, Riddle,_ ” she said, closing her book gently, but the way her magic reared up betrayed her discontent.

“ _You would be lucky if I killed you right here instead of sssskinning you alive. I’ll make sure you ssspend the resssst of your worthlesssss life rotting in Azkaban_ —”

“ _What, Riddle?_ ” The girl taunted, turning burning eyes onto him. “ _Will you be exposssing me? Ssshowing the whole world that your perfect pureblood prince is nothing but a fraud, and a criminal to boot?_ ”

Tom had felt this fury only once, when he had stood before his disgusting, weak, _Muggle_ father and smelled the drink on his breath.

“Get out of my sight,” he said, reverting to English. “Out. _Out_.”

Upon reflecting, Tom stood in the middle of his trashed quarters and came to the horrible realization that the boy—the girl—was _right_. Having won the tournament was too important. At best he would look like a fool. At worst, after having pulled so many strings to champion Black, he would be suspected as complicit in the deception.

For a brief moment Tom considered simply doing away with the chit. He could slip something to the horses, damage the carriage, tamper with the girl’s food, and make it all look like an accident. He could even frame a pro-Muggle group or that miserable construct.

No. The only thing killing the Potter girl would achieve was some temporary, although undoubtedly glorious, satisfaction. Perhaps this sort of thing was due, he reflected cynically. He had not had a true challenge in quite a long time. And all he needed to do to regain some control was wait until the Potter girl finished her schooling and switched back with the real — Circe, this would give him a headache — the _real_ Arcturus Black.

There was no way he was entrusting two teenagers with the future of the political and social standing he had spent _decades_ building.

“You need to tell me what you have done so far to maintain this pathetic ruse of yours.”


End file.
